Up on the Roof
by librarianmum
Summary: In which John learns to see the world - and Sherlock - from a different perspective. And Sherlock learns that it's not that easy coming back from the dead... but that there's always room for two up on the roof.


**Up on the Roof**

**This little story ties in to some degree with my planned follow-up to Lighting Fires, which will explore Sherlock's point of view both during and following his absence, as he tries to make sense of his experiences and fit back in to his old life. I will get around to that at some point. This little one-off will make more sense if you have read Lighting Fires, but to summarise, it's set six months or so after Sherlock returns from the dead. Molly and John knew he was alive the entire time, but kept his survival a secret from his other friends.**

**This can be read as strong friendship or preslash possibly.**

**James Taylor's songs have helped me through some difficult times recently, particularly the one that I played on repeat while writing this: Up on the Roof – I know it's not an original, but his version is my favourite.**

**Quick note – I've no idea how safe it would be to get up on the roof of 221B Baker Street! In my memory of London buildings, the roofs are usually quite steep unless there's a roof garden up there! But I love the concept of leaving the world far below for a few minutes of peace, and it seems to fit a little with Sherlock in particular (and also ties in with one of the scenes from Lighting Fires).**

**Disclaimers: the characters belong to ACD; their modern incarnations to Steven Moffatt, Mark Gatiss, Benedict Cumberbatch and the wonderful Martin Freeman. Words in italics are by Gerry Goffin and Carole King.**

* * *

_So when I come home feeling tired and beat, I'll go up where the air is fresh and sweet._

It had been a particularly grim day - even by John Watson's admittedly low standards, which generally held that as long as he hadn't _actually_ been kidnapped, threatened with violent death or forced to sprint across the capital to be beaten up by a psychopath on little to no sleep, he should count his blessings. The standards didn't take into account the necessity to be polite to the elderly hypochondriac who held him up for nearly 20 minutes with stories about her fictional bad shoulder. Nor did they dictate how to react to being vomited on by a small boy while trying to reassure his mother that no, he didn't have appendicitis and yes, he should really be in bed rather than out and about, spreading his virulent bout of gastroenteritis to less robust individuals. Scrubbing his shirt in the small practice bathroom while being teased by his colleagues for his inability to dodge didn't improve his temper much.

The summer tourists thronged aimlessly around the entrance to the nearby tube station which had clearly been closed yet again, due to over-crowding. John managed to squeeze himself onto a bus instead and clung to a strap as the vehicle made its familiar juddering stop-start motion along the busy street. He was flung forward against a hot, red-faced commuter, and cursed his modest height as his nose made unwelcome close contact with a sweaty armpit. As the bus stopped again, he found himself caught up in the general scrum of travellers getting off to head into the nearest open tube station. Rather than fight against it, he gave up and decided to walk. At least the air was moderately fresher, though no less humid.

The heat wave didn't show any signs of abating. London sulked its way through another unpleasantly clammy day, like a reluctant adolescent. As he walked along, dodging oblivious pedestrians, John reflected grumpily on why it was that the country and its people stopped coping as soon as the thermometer climbed either above or below a certain point. It was only mid-30s centigrade, and yet he'd found the excruciating summer heat of Afghanistan far less draining than an unusually warm day in central London. And he wasn't alone. Air conditioning units packed up; the transport system ground to a halt; the surgery was full of people with minor complaints that they would normally have shrugged off; everyone took illicit time away from work to strip off and barbecue themselves in the city parks. Sweat trickled down his spine, making his damp shirt adhere uncomfortably to his aching body, and he wanted nothing more than to be home, in clean dry clothes with a cold beer … and alone.

Was it wrong to cling to the fervent hope that one's flatmate and alleged best friend had gone out somewhere? That he'd been delayed and wouldn't return until late, if at all, tonight?

As he approached 221B, he could feel his footsteps slowing down, almost automatically, as if his body could sense his reluctance.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, listening intently. Silence. Mrs Hudson would be out – she usually went to her bingo on Wednesday afternoons and then back to her friend's house for tea. But he couldn't hear any noise coming from the upstairs flat either as he tramped up the stairs on leaden feet.

He opened the door cautiously, peered around it, and sighed with relief. Even if Sherlock hadn't been in the lounge, he could usually tell when the consulting detective was present. There would either be a prone figure on the sofa, bare feet dangling over the armrest, with an air of resentful boredom, or there'd be a flurry of urgent movement between lounge, bedroom and kitchen, and an atmosphere of excitement and thinly-veiled impatience, which would of course mean a crime had been committed. Always assuming that Lestrade, Dimmock or the newly-promoted DI Sally Donovan would let him anywhere near the scene, which couldn't be guaranteed these days.

Just recently, there'd been far more of the former scenes than of the latter.

John walked into the kitchen and winced at the sight of shattered glass liberally covering the floor – glass surrounded by the stinking remains of something organic, God knew what.

He remembered shouting at the detective – was it only last night? – telling him to _get this bloody mess cleared up_ before storming upstairs to his bedroom. There was a subsequent and prolonged smashing of glass that he couldn't be bothered to come down to investigate – _let the selfish bastard bleed to death for all he cared_. He'd woken late and hadn't even made it to the kitchen to see if Sherlock had sorted things out; he'd just dashed out of the door, swearing furiously under his breath as he'd struggled into his jacket.

John stared at the scene of devastation for a few minutes, feeling the cares of the day pressing heavily upon his shoulders. For a moment, just a brief few seconds, he contemplated grabbing his overnight bag and walking back out again. Harry would put him up, or there was always the spare room in Greg's new flat, assuming he wasn't entertaining Sally tonight…

But, in the end, there was no choice. There was never a choice. He threw his jacket over the back of the armchair, pulled off his tie and tossed it in the same direction, placed his briefcase very precisely against the wall and stepped gingerly into the kitchen, rolling his sleeves up. He grabbed the dustpan and brush and a new bin liner, brushed up the entire mess, gagging slightly at the stink, and shovelled it all into the bin bag. Sometimes, he would try to peer at the contents and work out whether they were actual human remains, out of some vague respect for the dead. Today, he couldn't care less. He double-bagged it, took the sealed bag downstairs and dumped it in the bin. Back in the kitchen, he ran boiling water into a bucket, added a good splash of disinfectant and bleach and tackled the floor and units with a furious energy that surprised him.

Having mopped and scrubbed until the floor and units were sparkling he stopped, rubbing his forehead with a sweaty forearm as he surveyed his work. His work trousers were now filthy and his soggy shirt stank of disinfectant as well as the lingering aroma of vomit that he had been unsuccessful in eliminating entirely. _Delightful_.

He stripped down to his boxers, gathered his discarded clothes into a pile and shoved them into the washing machine. He hesitated for a few minutes… but, after all, the machine wasn't full and he'd done his own laundry yesterday, so, muttering under his breath, he crossed the flat to Sherlock's room.

The room was dark, with the curtains still drawn. By Sherlock's standards, it was reasonably tidy, although yesterday's shirt lay abandoned on the floor, inside out. Considering the price of his clothes, the consulting detective was surprisingly careless with them. Despite that, he always managed to look well turned out, and John often wondered what he'd done before he'd had a flat mate. Bought new clothes each week and worn them only once?

He sighed and stepped around the unmade bed, picking up the shirt and a couple of other discarded pieces of clothing on his way to the laundry basket. He dumped the contents in the washing machine, along with some detergent and turned it on, reflecting for probably the millionth time that it was hardly normal behaviour to raid a flat mate's room and retrieve his laundry. But then, what was _normal_? Had he _ever_ experienced it?

"Six months," he hissed at the spinning machine, as if it had personally offended him. "_Six bloody awful months_."

Once he'd had a mercifully cool shower and redressed in a t-shirt and joggers, he felt more human. It was too hot to even contemplate eating, but he retrieved a bottle of cold beer from the carefully labelled 'food only' fridge and wandered around the lounge, looking aimlessly for clues as to his friend's whereabouts. It was a pointless quest: Sherlock rarely left written notes, and John was too knackered to look for anything more subtle. If the detective remembered at some point during the day, he would text John to let him know whether he would be back for dinner or whether they'd run out of milk again – and of course, he would contact John if there was a case requiring the doctor's presence. John usually didn't fuss too much - he knew that Sherlock would often forget if he was in the middle of an experiment – but today, his stomach churned uneasily as he remembered the fight and that blank, strange look on his friend's face.

TV didn't appeal, so he retrieved a medical journal from his briefcase and sank onto the sofa. He flicked through the journal without much interest, sipping his beer from time to time.

He must have dropped off for a bit, as he woke with a start and realised that the airless flat was fractionally cooler and that the light was starting to fade. He glanced at his watch, noting with surprise that it was nine-thirty. It wasn't really a surprise – he'd been too hot to sleep properly for the last few nights and, last night, he'd been even more restless than usual, due to his simmering anger.

His stomach growled and he wandered into the kitchen. Too weary to contemplate anything complicated, he made a cheese sandwich and ate it at the kitchen counter, along with the bruised banana that he hadn't had time for at lunch time. He dug his mobile out of his pocket. No messages.

He grabbed another beer and wandered up the stairs to his bedroom – his laptop was up there and he had a vague notion that he might update his blog before getting an early night. But with _what_? What cases could he write about?

He stopped in front of his room, irresolute, and toed the open door, watching it creak back and forth as he sipped his beer. His room was smaller than Sherlock's. He didn't mind that so much in the winter, as the bigger spaces in the old flat could be drafty, but at this time of year, the little bedroom was unpleasantly close, even with the small window propped open. It was basically a loft bedroom, right at the top of the building, with a small passageway outside; all other rooms were downstairs.

He eyed the skylight at the end of the short corridor and idly wondered whether the window's rusty hinge would give – if he could open it, he might be able to freshen the air up here a little. It might make it easier to sleep, anyway.

He set down his beer and grabbed the desk chair from his room. Stepping onto it, he was able to reach the hinge, which gave easily. He wondered at that briefly, before realising that Sherlock had probably used this route in and out of the flat on more than one occasion – the detective could traverse the roofs of London like a cat. He wondered, rather uneasily, how often Sherlock had used the route while he, John, was sleeping just a short distance away.

Having opened the window, his curiosity was aroused. It hadn't occurred to him that it might be possible to step out onto the roof. Standing on tiptoe, he could see that it was steeply sloping. However, there was an iron ladder fixed to the roof just to the left of the window, presumably some form of rudimentary fire escape, although he wouldn't care to have to climb all the way to the ground on it. Looking up above the window, John saw that the top of the roof evened out into a flat area, just a few feet away.

Retrieving his beer, he stepped back onto the chair and used the nearby wall to lever himself up into the window space. Cautiously, he tested the stability of the iron rungs before stepping out onto them. After making sure that the window was safely propped open, he stretched up and placed his bottle on the flat area before scrambling up efficiently after it.

The flat section was a small space between the sloping roofs of several connected buildings, about seven square feet in diameter, with a large chimney in the centre. It was quite a pleasant spot, as long as you didn't look down too much – and there was a refreshing breeze from the direction of Regent's Park. From here, John could see a fair amount of central London. As his eyes moved over the pattern of streets and buildings, he began to understand why Sherlock often resorted to roof tops to get an overall perspective.

He sat down, enjoying the pretty sight of lights flickering on across the capital. In a strange way, he rather liked the fact that he couldn't entirely work out what he was looking at from this unusual angle, even though he knew the area well. Sherlock, no doubt, would be able to name every road and probably most of the buildings too – and he'd probably run off in a frenetic monologue about who lived there, their families, their jobs, who they were sleeping with and what they'd had for breakfast. And yes, it _was_ amazing and fantastic and all that – but God, sometimes it was pretty bloody tiring too.

Not that there'd been much of _that_ lately.

John sighed and leaned back against the chimney, letting his head fall back as he stared up at the sky. He could make out some stars appearing as the sky darkened further. It was rare enough to see stars in the middle of London with its artificial lights. The clear sky suggested that tomorrow would be equally hot; John wriggled his shoulders in his damp t-shirt and wondered when the weather would finally break.

He lingered in his spot, sipping his beer, and not remotely concerned about the fact that it was getting dark, which would make climbing down again something of a challenge. He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard a creak from the direction of the window, followed by the sound of the iron ladder rattling against the roof tiles. Sliding his eyes sideways, he saw a familiar tall, slim, dark figure jumping gracefully over the edge of the roof. Landing like a cat, Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment, even though he must have known that John would be there. Or was there another reason for his hesitancy?

John watched as his flat mate sank down, hunching himself into a small ball, some distance away. The consulting detective rested his cheek against his knees and gazed unseeingly over the view while picking moodily at an invisible thread on his dark suit trousers.

There was a new tentativeness to the detective these days. He no longer entered a room as if he owned it. Oh, he'd tried to carry on as before, as if the three years had never happened, but it hadn't been as easy as that. John could see a new uncertainty underneath the arrogant expression that Sherlock continued to project to the world at large.

"Busy day, then?" he murmured, half expecting to be shot down, as he so regularly was, these days.

The detective's lip curled bitterly. "Stupid, myopic, narrow-minded _imbeciles_…"

John sighed. A scene, then. Another scene at which Sherlock's assistance had quite clearly been declined.

"Who was it? Donovan?"

"Lestrade." The reply was subdued.

John bit his lip down on the obvious rejoinder. He'd tried on too many occasions and was fed up with the verbal put-downs he would get in return, which were quite obviously not because Sherlock thought he was wrong but because he so painfully realised that John was right, but couldn't bring himself to admit it.

There was a drawn-out sigh, and then Sherlock said it anyway, in a light mockery of John's voice: "If I'd said sorry and really meant it instead of just marching into his office in my usual manner, he might have forgiven me by now. Yes. I _know_ that, John."

"Well…" But John couldn't bring himself to say that he'd told him so.

"Sentiment. That's all it is – pure sentiment. Human emotions." In the dim light, John could just make out the fastidious wrinkle at the bridge of the detective's nose – indicating either disgust or, more likely, perplexity. "He knows the truth now; he knows why I did it. He knows that he would have been lying on a slab himself if I hadn't."

"Not as simple as that," John muttered, closing his eyes against the stars.

"Why? _Why_?" Sherlock picked up a small stone and flung it viciously at the opposite roof. "_Why_ don't I understand it, John? I'm aware of the emotions of anger and betrayal; I know all about their manifestations, the role they play in the violent crimes I solve. How is it that I can _know_ and yet not _understand_?"

"Truthfully? I really don't know," John replied wearily, opening his eyes again. He could see Vega now, the brightest star in the constellation of Lyra that marked out a corner of the Summer Triangle.

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Sherlock's shoulders hunch down over his drooping head, and wondered briefly whether the man had slept at all last night. More likely he had gone out to prowl the midnight streets of the city he loved, following his destructive behaviour in the kitchen.

Almost as if he could read John's thoughts, Sherlock gestured towards him. "About the kitchen. I was going to clean it up, but I – I appreciate it – what you did."

"S'ok." John leaned his cheek against the rough brick of the chimney as he looked at Sherlock dispassionately. It wasn't really, ok, of course, but what choice did he have? The anger of earlier had dispersed and he was able to look at his friend with almost clinical interest as he considered Sherlock's words.

Choice. A strange concept. Did he choose Sherlock all those years ago, or did Sherlock choose _him_? From the moment the detective had taken his mobile and made his deductions and given him the address, had he, John, ever really _had_ a choice? From the moment Mycroft had offered him money, despite almost certainly knowing that John would turn it down in disgust, had his fate been sealed? The Holmes brothers, together and separately, were forces of nature, sweeping all and sundry along, protesting weakly but impotently, in their wake. Had the older Holmes brother already read him like a book, with his usual perspicacity, by the time they had met? Had he already decided that this man, this invalided army doctor, would… _do_?

Would do for _what_? As some kind of moral guardian for his socially inept relative? Tell him when things were a 'bit not good'? Give him the advice that he would never take from his older brother? Did Mycroft see John as someone who could keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow – make him eat and sleep reasonably regularly, protect him from the never-ending lure of cocaine… kill murderous taxi drivers for him?

But was _that_ the moment? _That_ moment, when John took out his illegal firearm and aimed it to kill a complete stranger in cold blood, in order to save the life of a man he barely knew? Was _he_, John, complicit in this strange twist of destiny?

What if he had made another choice back then; taken a different path?

Sherlock shifted, perhaps uneasy under John's clinical gaze. "Well if _you_ don't know why…"

John sighed. "I'm not a psychiatrist, Sherlock. And it was _you_ who identified yourself as a sociopath to Dave Anderson. Did you ever really _believe_ that, by the way?"

The detective shrugged. "Why not? It's as neat an explanation as any -."

"It's bollocks, and you know it." John interrupted, impatiently. "I'm no psychiatrist, but even I could see through _that_ on the first day. You know that's not your clinical diagnosis, so why pretend it is?"

Sherlock smirked. "Why not? Imbeciles like Anderson want a straightforward diagnosis. They can't cope with the complexities of human nature. That's why he's such a liability on a scene. He _sees_, but he does not _observe_."

"Just like me, then?" asked John, not attempting to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"He's not like you – not even _remotely_." The detective's voice was barely above a whisper.

He decided to let it go. "So all that 'I'm a sociopath' crap – all that's just laziness, is it? It allows you to swan around, being offensive and making the most outrageous observations with impunity - under the guise of a clinical diagnosis? It saves you from having to be aware of the feelings of others. You don't need to adjust your behaviour accordingly."

"It works both ways," Sherlock countered. "It allows them to justify their instinctive dislike of me. I'm the 'freak' – the genius with no emotions, no feelings to hurt. And, that way, it's perfectly acceptable if I can solve the 'unsolvable' – and equally acceptable that they _cannot_. After all, why should _they_ be made to feel inadequate? Clearly, the 'freak', with his lack of understanding of the 'normal' human psyche, will have skills that they cannot be expected to have. You see? Everyone's happy."

"Except that they're not, are they? All that happens is that they resent you more. You just all go on exchanging insults – they carry on accusing you of inhumanity, of being a psychopath, and you carry on embarrassing them with loud observations on their private lives and general level of intellect. Don't you _see_?" John sat up straighter, peering through the gloom at the moodily hunched figure at the other end of the roof. "In the end, all you injure is yourself. How long has it been since you were invited to a crime scene? How long since your presence was even tolerated? You just keep turning up, insulting them – and then you wonder why they tell you to piss off?"

"They need me," Sherlock muttered, furiously.

"But you were only ever there in the first place under sufferance - and at Greg's invitation. And now you've lost your only genuine friend on the force. If Greg won't have you there, no one will. Sally dislikes you anyway, so it's a perfect excuse. Dimmock is more sympathetic, but they're both angry at the way you treated Greg. Neither is prepared to put their necks on the line. And Greg feels all the pain and bitterness coming back, every time he sets eyes on you – on a good day, he can probably hide his feelings and be professional. I'm guessing that today wasn't a good day?"

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, wearily. "You _know_ why I faked my death. _He_ knows why."

"_No_, Sherlock," John went on, quietly. "I'm not talking about the Fall. I'm talking about the day you walked back into his office as if nothing had ever happened. No apology. No patience with his natural anger; his need for explanations. Just that typical arrogant attitude of yours – 'here I am, so let's get on with it'. As if nothing had ever changed. As if you hadn't faked your death and left him to grieve you for _three whole years_."

"Why should I apologise for that?" Sherlock demanded. "I never apologised to _you_ – not in so many words, anyway."

"No, you didn't, did you," John observed, drily.

The man opposite eyed him, warily. "_Should_ I have?"

John sighed. "No, I suppose not. But it's different for Lestrade. He doesn't know you the way I do. I mean, I _know_ you're sorry – or as sorry as you ever _can_ be, anyway. But there's another dimension you haven't considered."

"Which is?"

John hesitated for a moment. "You keep going on about how you took the fall for him. But you didn't – not _really_. Not for _him_. And he knows it. So, in a way, your explanations are meaningless."

As the detective remained silent, he elaborated, gesturing with his hand, although it was unlikely that Sherlock could see: "Three snipers. Three targets. Unless you fell. But you didn't fall for _Greg_, did you? Or for Mrs Hudson. There was a reason why you wanted _me_ to be there, wasn't there? A reason why _I _had to see it. What was it Moriarty said – back at the pool? 'I will burn the heart out of you'. And that's what he tried to do … wasn't it?"

In the dark, John could barely make out his friend's silhouette. A cool but invigorating breeze blew across the rooftop, taking away the lingering heat of the summer day. He felt goose bumps on his bare forearms – and was unsure whether they were due to the temperature or the intense atmosphere that had arisen suddenly. _Words left unsaid for so long_.

"I took the fall for _you_." Again, it was scarcely above a whisper – so quiet that John wasn't sure at first whether it was actually Sherlock that had spoken, or whether his own subconscious had supplied the words that were hardly necessary.

"I know." And his reply was unnecessary too. They both knew it; had always known it.

John sighed, placing his empty beer bottle carefully on the roof by the chimney. He moved away to lie flat on his back, his hands behind his head.

"Don't you ever wonder how your life might have been different? If you'd made a different decision at some point in your life – something that might seem trivial at the time? If you hadn't left your course at Cambridge to move to London. If you'd never met Lestrade. If I hadn't gone back to Barts with Mike that day. If you hadn't decided to move to 221B. So many choices. Sometimes I – I wonder..."

Sherlock made no reply, but he shifted a little nearer to John, to lie on his back, risking his expensive suit on the dusty tarmac.

"Why the army, for a start? Why didn't I just go into surgery – some specialty? Or into general practice? I could have had my own practice by now, a house somewhere in the suburbs. Maybe a wife – kids."

"Why the army? That's easy enough. You would have been bored to death if you'd gone straight into general medicine. Even now, you dislike the mundane nature of day-to-day practice – the mild illnesses, the minor wounds, the vomiting children and the over-anxious lonely older women. Once you chose medicine – which was an obvious choice by the way, due to your clinical mind, natural sympathy, almost pathological need to be of use to others and desire for the adrenaline rush that comes with emergency situations – you would not have been content to follow the usual route to general practice or a hospital specialty. Yes, you entered the army out of necessity initially, as they offered you the opportunity to fund your medical training, but it turned out to be merely the perfect environment for you. If you hadn't stayed in for military service, you would have been drawn to emergency services; possibly you would have specialised in orthopaedics. Definitely surgery."

Sherlock's voice rang out with confidence; less tentative now that he was on certain ground. Despite his own misgivings, John relished the familiarity and sought to prolong it. "So, would I still be in the army now if I hadn't been shot?"

"Well, your record suggests you would have stayed on for a third tour of duty – probably back to Afghanistan, or perhaps to the Basra base in Iraq. That would be typical of your desire to remain alongside your comrades, and you would, of course, wish to be of use to the soldiers serving there. You would hate a desk job, miles away from the front line. After that, I…" Sherlock's voice faltered slightly in the darkness, sounding almost surprised. "You know, I'm not absolutely sure… _Would_ you?"

John smiled up into the night sky, safely hidden by the gloom. "How does it feel? Not being sure?"

"It's not something I enjoy," the detective admitted. "But then, that's my acknowledged weakness, isn't it? I can extrapolate the likely facts based on deductions of environment, upbringing, past behaviour, current and past experiences, motivations, psychology… but they are only the most _likely_ outcomes. There's always _something_ – if it's not a sister rather than a brother, then it's some quirk of character, some hitherto unknown quantity that can affect the outcome … and _there_, I am as uninformed as the next man."

"Unless the next man happens to be Anderson," John murmured.

"Well, that goes without saying, _naturally_," he responded drily, and they both laughed. And how long had it been since _that_ last happened, John mused.

"Well… would you?" The detective sounded genuinely curious, which made John feel momentarily light-headed. He couldn't recall whether his life or motivations had ever been a mystery to his strange friend in the past. Had Sherlock lost his confidence in his own deductive abilities? Or was it simply that those aspects of John's past that didn't immediately affect Sherlock had never been of that much interest to him?

He sighed. "I don't think so. I enjoyed the camaraderie, of course. And you're right – I _would_ have stayed on for that third tour, if I could have. But beyond that?" He shook his head. "Front line medicine is a young man's game, and I wouldn't have been all that interested in staying in just to train others. I would have -," he hesitated, thinking.

"You would have married and had children and lived in the suburbs." As always, Sherlock's tone made no secret of his distaste for domesticity.

"Yeah. I think I might have."

"You might still?" And again, John was struck by the new-found hesitancy in Sherlock's voice.

"No. Not now," he replied, quietly, and listened to the barely-distinguishable little exhale of breath from his companion.

"You _are_ still young. Only early forties. Many men marry and procreate later in life."

He stared up at the constellations. "I _think_ you know that it has nothing to do with age." _Not now_, he added to himself. _That ship has sailed_.

The detective was silent in the face of John's certainty.

"Don't you ever wonder, though?" John went on, suddenly. "Having a kid, passing something on. Experience, knowledge, all that stuff. Watching that kid grow up, do all the things you always wanted to do but never got around to. Producing another human being that might resemble you, might inherit the best of you or, alternatively, the worst. Trying to see whether you could do a better job than your parents." He was silent for a moment. "That's what I think of sometimes. Not so much about finding love -," he stopped quickly before his words could run away from him, and then continued, rather lamely. "That's what I think of mostly – having a child. What about you? Don't you ever think of becoming a father?"

"Not _me_. _Never_ me." The words were harsh in the quietness, almost acerbic, and John could visualise the consulting detective glaring up into the night sky. And yet, there was a melancholy there that he could not remember hearing before.

"And Mycroft?"

His only response was a brief, unamused laugh.

"Then your name will die out." He stated it as a fact, almost wonderingly. It seemed odd to him that this extraordinary family would one day be represented merely by facts on a page, or on a web blog. And even then, probably only Sherlock; he doubted that there was a single line of text relating to Mycroft that hadn't been destroyed, apart from his birth certificate, perhaps.

"Would that be such a loss?" Sherlock asked, after a moment's contemplation.

"What?" John propped himself up on his elbows to peer through the darkness at his friend. "Do you really think so little of your own importance?"

Sherlock sighed, almost impatiently. "I could hardly be described as falsely modest, John. I am perfectly aware of my skills and knowledge – and their benefits to the world… just as Mycroft is, no doubt, fully aware of his. But, tell me truthfully, apart from you and Mrs Hudson and a handful of others, who may or may not include my brother and mother among their number, who would _really_ care if I were to throw myself off this roof right now?"

John sat up straight, feeling a knot of tension developing low in his abdomen. How many nights had Sherlock come out here, while he slumbered just below, unaware? How many nights had he stood on this rooftop and wondered? _Falling is just like flying_. Had he developed a _taste_ for it?

The uneasy feeling that had dogged him all day came back with full force. He recalled that blank expression on Sherlock's face last night, as he stood in the doorway of their kitchen and harangued him. Sherlock, who had spent his day engaged in – what? While John worked, what did his flat mate actually _do_? What filled his hours now that he was as good as banned from crime scenes and Lestrade's office, and made to feel less than welcome at the Bart's mortuary?

What had Sherlock been _doing_ for the last six months? As John carried on with his life, naively glad to have his old friend home, had the detective been trying to get his old life back, strike up old acquaintances and old alliances with his usual lack of social awareness? Had he been trying to make amends with Greg and Molly and Mrs Hudson, with no real notion of where he'd gone wrong and how he could even _begin_ to make things right?

John had a sudden frighteningly clear vision of an arrogant but fundamentally insecure man blinking with honest surprise at each new rejection; each cold look and angry comment; each uncertain glance towards John for verification and approval. He could see it all very clearly now, illustrated as it was by the change in Sherlock's behaviour. Initially made confident by John's hearty welcome, he'd grown progressively more sullen and tense over the months, snapping at the least provocation, messing up the flat and seeming to take pleasure in John's annoyance. The doctor had grown to dread coming home, not knowing what atmosphere to expect – whether his flat mate would be insulting and deliberately provocative, ominously quiet and sulky, or buzzing with desperate energy over some new, fleeting enthusiasm.

And, of course, the stupid, stiff-backed man wouldn't think to ask John for advice. Not _John_, of all people – not Mrs Hudson's new favourite son, Greg's closest friend and confidante, Raz and Angelo's new best mate, the Homeless Network's new hero. Each day, John's mere presence must have been a fresh provocation to Sherlock – a reminder of the life he had voluntarily given up when he had jumped off that building.

Sherlock gave a low, knowing laugh. "Relax, John. I'm not about to pitch myself off the roof."

"But you've thought about it? Haven't you?" Peering into the gloom of Sherlock's corner, John could see that he was still stretched out on his back, gazing up into the sky.

"I -," Sherlock seemed to hesitate a little. "Well, there are easier ways of achieving a relatively painless death if I had thoughts in that direction…" His voice trailed off, dreamily, and John imagined his thoughts flying away in their usual manner, weighing up the options, plotting the perfect suicide.

"As _you_ would know, of all people," John muttered. "So how would you do it, then? Overdose? A cocktail of drugs? Do I need to check the flat?" He was aware that his voice had grown tight with anger.

Sherlock lifted his head, apparently startled by the tone. "_No_, of course not -."

"Are you sure? You need to be sure, Sherlock, because I am _not_ going through that again – I _mean_ it." He took a deep breath, counting to ten to try to calm himself.

"John, I –."

"No, Sherlock! I don't want to hear it." He stood up and turned away, pressing his fists up against the rough brick of the chimney in an attempt to ground himself. "I – I know things have been difficult since you returned -."

"_John_." The voice was much closer, and he realised that Sherlock was standing close behind him; close enough for John to feel a warm breath on his neck. A pale hand came up, appearing in his range of vision, to rest tentatively on his shoulder; as John turned his face towards it, the hand withdrew quickly, as if burnt.

"I am not contemplating suicide – I swear it to you, John. Not _now_, not _ever_."

"Then why do you come up here so often?" He closed his eyes and pushed hard against his fists, feeling the rough pressure scrape his skin. "You do, don't you? That window hinge – it looks rusty, but opens easily. It wouldn't do that if you'd only been up here occasionally."

There was a pause as Sherlock absorbed this new insight; John could almost feel the approval radiating from the other man.

"I _do_ come up here, quite frequently, that _is_ true - but not for the reason you think."

John turned, opening his eyes. Sherlock had moved a couple of steps away and was gazing over the edge, towards the pavement of Baker Street, far below them.

"Can you give me a reason?" Trembling slightly, he lifted his right hand, touching his fingers lightly to the spot where Sherlock's hand had rested briefly; the skin there was tingling still for some reason.

"I – it reminds me…" The detective's voice broke slightly, and he looked towards John, his pale eyes almost pleading.

And, quite suddenly, John understood. "It reminds you of what you did and why you did it. Whenever things get really bad, like today - when Greg ignores you and Sally insults you and Molly asks you to leave and Mrs Hudson looks hurt… when you wonder why you took the decision to jump. You come here, and stand on the edge and look down, and it makes sense once more. And – and it gives you the strength to carry on."

Sherlock gave one stiff, almost painful, nod, and John realised how much it had cost him to admit to those moments of weakness, of doubt.

He walked tentatively to stand next to the detective, a little unsure of his welcome. The taller man didn't flinch away as John's shoulder brushed against his arm; if anything, he seemed to lean slightly into the touch.

John looked down at the view and winced. "You know," he began, conversationally. "I've seen – and done – a lot of scary things in my time. I was in a helicopter that crashed shortly after take-off – just minor injuries that time. I've had to perform rudimentary surgery on scared lads with their limbs hanging off, while bullets ripped the ground all around us. I earned medals. They – the authorities - called me brave. But… but all those times, it was the adrenaline that kept me going, made me do all those amazing deeds that I am praised for. If I'd stopped just once to really _think_ about what I was doing, I'm not sure I would have had the courage."

"That's not true," the man at his side murmured.

John shrugged. "Well, whatever you may think, there's one thing I know for sure - I can't stand at the edge of a great height and look down without feeling absolutely terrified. The very thought of going closer to the edge makes my feet literally _freeze_. Even more so since I went off the edge of that roof with Seb Moran. What I'm saying is that I can't even _contemplate_ the courage needed to stand on the edge of a high roof and say goodbye to your best friend before jumping off. And to do all that knowing that three lives depend on your ability to make it look convincing… I still don't know exactly _how_ you did it, Sherlock, and I hope that one day, you feel able to tell me. But I do know this... that the man who had the presence of mind and courage to go through that for the sake of his friends is no sociopath. And the man who cared enough about his friends to get through the terror of that fall – well, that man _can_ make things right. He _will _make things right. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' – that's what I wrote on those walls while you were away. And I stand by it – by _you_."

Sherlock made a sound far back in his throat that might have been a muffled sob. John felt the tall body next to him tremble slightly with some carefully suppressed emotion, and it was this more than anything else that gave him the courage to reach out with his hand and feel his way down the jacket sleeve to stroke gently but briefly over the slender wrist before grasping the thin hand in his.

Sherlock jumped as if electrocuted, and John half expected him to pull away, but instead the long fingers entwined with his own with almost desperate eagerness.

They stood silently, side by side, looking out over the city, their joined hands hidden in the dark, between their bodies. And John felt his old dreams of marriage and fatherhood and that little house in the suburbs fly away over the rooftops, like insubstantial wisps of cloud – felt them leave him behind, with no real regret.

"Do you ever wonder…?" he began, but then stopped, not sure how to articulate what he wanted to say.

"Bees," Sherlock whispered.

"Mmm?"

"Bees. When all _this_ -,_"_ he gestured at the city, "- is over. When I'm old and I can't keep running any more. I'll keep bees. Always been interested in bees."

"I didn't know that," John murmured. "All these years, and I didn't know that." And then he realised, with a sudden lightening of his heart, that there was _time_. All the time in the world to learn. To _know_.

The fingers tightened on his nervously, and he stroked his thumb very gently over Sherlock's, soothing him. Recognising the need for reassurance.

"Sussex," he said, suddenly.

"Sussex?"

"I loved it there – when I went to visit Greg at your old home. The countryside, the peace… I told myself then that I'd go back one day."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, John could hear the smile in his voice.

"Sussex," he agreed, as he leaned his weight more comfortably against John's shoulder. His dark curly head dropped to rest lightly against John's.

Far below them, the city continued its bustle and its people carried on with their busy, messy, oblivious lives throughout the warm, heavy night.

_And if this world starts getting you down, there's room enough for two up on the roof.  
_


End file.
